Symbol
by TheRabidHOBBITFangirls
Summary: TylerNarrator slash. You wonder what it would be like, being deaf, having to read off of Tyler's lips everything he has ever said. Having to look at that split and bruised and tantalizing mouth forever.


Author Note: A solo fic, by Aye! Tyler/Narrator slash. Um. This is my first time writing sex. Um.

**Symbol**

You moan into the pillow, hypersensitive to Tyler's every touch, every whim. He whispers dirty things into your ear and you gasp, turned-on by the proximity of his lips and the rich innuendo of his voice.

He slides into you slowly, pulls back when you beg for more, and sets a pace that sparks your every nerve with electricity.

Tyler, you groan, fuck, Tyler.

**Stop. Rewind.**

Three days ago, you are walking down the busy street when you notice that the bandage on your hand has peeled off. You feel suddenly embarrassed; exposed, and naked – outside of Fight Club, you are not in Fight Club. You are about to stick the tape back down when you notice it.

Tyler Durden's lips.

Full, red, alluring, and chemically burned into the back of your hand.

Your subconscious takes note of this. You fix the gauze, and continue on your way.

**Fast forward five hours in one forty-eighth of a second.**

You are sitting on the toilet, and Tyler is in the bathtub with a bar of soap that has been made of human fat. I am Jack's prostate, you say, and, suddenly, you remember Tyler's kiss, and you are Jack's raging hard-on.

Gonna take care of this, you say. Normally, you wouldn't have bothered leaving the room, but this is different. Because you usually don't get hard thinking about guys, and you definitely have never gotten off thinking about Tyler Durden.

You stalk out, stiff-legged and awkward. Tyler watches you leave out of the corner of his eye with a strange expression gracing his lips.

**Freeze frame.**

Expressive. Beautiful. Flawlessly set into that beat-up face. Red and bloodied. Cracked, split into asymmetric perfection.

Can you see them?

**Play.**

It's the best orgasm you've had in a while. You wipe yourself off using a sock, feeling sleepily content. Somewhere in the back of your mind, something protests heartily, but you ignore it. Instead, your eyes focus muzzily on your hand, which is inches from your face; red and stripped and burned. A thought passes through your mind, and, self-consciously, you gently press your lips to the swollen blister.

You wake up with a headache that smashes itself into your brain. Black holes erupt in front of your eyes as you stand, groaning, and you shuffle your uncertain way down the creaky stairs, and into the pantry, where there are blessed pills to make you stop hurting.

You swallow three, and press your forehead against the cold and wet tabletop, wondering idly exactly what it is you are saturating your skin with.

"Dihydrogen monoxide."

You jerk upwards, eyes crossing momentarily with the sudden pressure change. Shit, you say, what the fuck.

Tyler is standing in the doorway, smiling, strange and mocking. Your ears burn red, and you realize that he knows. Hastily, you dry your face to cover your flush, looking away.

"All you have to do is ask." His words are like fingers, caressing at your neck. You shiver and say too loudly, Eggs?

Tyler laughs and says, "Don't throw up."

**Pause. Zoom in, pixel by blurry pixel.**

The bottle reads –

**Skip frame: twenty minutes of life.**

You retch into the grimy toilet, stars exploding in your head. Nothing's come out yet, but that's not very reassuring. You moan and wonder if you'd feel better if you just got it over with. What the fuck was that shit, anyway?

"Get up." Tyler's fingers push your sweaty hair back from your forehead. "Throwing up won't help." You push weakly at him and nearly end up with a mouthful of toilet water. "Hey." His voice is provokingly close to your ear. "Get up."

You feel like shit. Can't the fucker leave you alone?

"I said," Tyler says dangerously, "get up." He yanks your head back and you yowl, Shit! Bastard!

He makes you drink milk and eat toast. And in a little while, you feel better.

Or, you would, if he weren't smiling that stupid fucking smile. If he weren't standing so close you could feel the heat off his body. If he weren't _just barely_ touching you.

Fuck it, Tyler, I don't know what you're trying to do –

"Hey, calm down." Tyler lights a cigarette and sucks in, deeply. "You want it. Just ask." Smoke pours over you, warm and damp, and you shove yourself away from him, knocking over your chair.

How the hell would you know, you snarl, disgusted with the hot curl of desire that coils in your stomach.

(You know this because Tyler knows this. And Tyler knows this because you want him to.)

**Stop. Fast forward one (1) day.**

You're standing at Tyler's door, toeing at a splinter that sticks up from the bare wooden boards. The burn on your hand throbs; you accidentally hit it against the table, and it popped, bleeding watery liquid all over your skin.

You look at the rickety, peeling door, and your hand hovers somewhere between knocking and leaving.

"Come in," Tyler calls, and, despite the fact you haven't even touched the door, you enter.

Tyler is sprawled on his bed, lithe, powerful, cat-like. He is reading the pamphlets you copied the other day, and his half-naked body gleams in the light.

He turns to look at you, head tilted back and upside down, neck bared to the world. His lips curve into a feral-toothed grin, and you know what he wants you to say.

Can I –

**Slow motion, frame by frame close-ups.**

Your vocal chords stop working. Have sex with you, fuck you, make sweaty dirty gay love to you; the possibilities scurry through your head like so many cockroaches.

You can feel the slow pulse of blood that runs through the kiss on your hand; a single bead of sweat that is trickling sluggishly along your hairline; the roughness of the floor beneath you. And you can feel, intensely, Tyler Durden's gaze, heavy-lidded and knowing.

_All you have to do is ask_.

You wonder what it would be like, being deaf, having to read off of Tyler's lips everything he has ever said. Having to look at that split and bruised and tantalizing mouth forever.

Your own lips tighten and press together, before you part them and say, almost casually –

**Resume play.**

Can we fuck?

Tyler grins and says, "You know the answer."

You strip, unselfconsciously, and sit on the edge of the bed. It feels as natural as breathing when you kiss him.

Your tongues brush against each other with wet electricity; you bite at his lip and wonder at the powers of communication. He breaks off the kiss to suck at your neck, and you hiss when he breaks skin, leaving you with yet another imprint of his mouth. One hand wanders down to your chest, rubs over your nipple, tweaking and nipping until you gasp –

God! Tyler!

– and squirm away.

You could have punched him, and you might have, if he weren't Tyler, if this weren't what you've been hoping for longer than you can think of, if this weren't your dirty little secret your subconscious has tried to hide for your entire life. Instead, you let him fondle your ass, stick his tongue into your navel, swirl it around as sparks of arousal burst in your stomach.

You bite your tongue trying to contain your whimper as he bites the inside of your thigh. He holds your knees apart and pushes your hips down; you wonder if he's thinking of Marla.

Tyler slaps you and snarls in your ear, "This is about you, only you, not Marla, you stupid bitch."

This only turns you on more, and you draw blood, trying desperately not to moan like a girl.

"Let it out," he says, "don't hold back." And his fingers close around your cock and they squeeze and you groan.

He lubricates his fingers, and you tense, because you've never done this before and, fuck, it's going to hurt you know it. But he doesn't do anything, just smiles and licks his lips and wraps them around your cock.

The blister on your hand stings and stings and your toes curl, because, God, is Tyler fucking Durden good at sucking cock. You don't even notice it when the first finger slides into you.

Ahhn, Tyler, shit . . .

And then another finger joins the first and you yelp, because it does hurt.

"Relax," Tyler says, and twists just _so_ and you scream.

More, you pant, and a third slicks its way in and rams in and out and the friction drives you insane. Your hips thrust against Tyler's hand, your cock begs for more.

Tyler grins, and flips you over on your stomach.

"All you had to do was ask."

Something in your head shatters and melts together in a strange new shape. You realize what this is about (Tyler thrusts into you hard and fast, and you hiss with pain) and why you are here (open-mouthed and moaning, you rock your hips back) and why Tyler's lips are burned into your body (Tyler fucks you, hard and fast, and his hand grips your cock and jerks) and when you orgasm (your muscles contract and pulse, and Tyler rams into you once more and sinks his teeth into your shoulder) it's like a divine revelation.

This is all about communication. This is about Tyler Durden. This is about symbolism, and power. This is about animal fucking and dominance and nothing about love. This is about self.

This is about you.


End file.
